Hey, here’s a plan:
Since you’re the one who’s pissed off, you do the travelling.
Bring your ass to Texas and and we’ll have a target shooting
contest, any range, any weapon. I got a few to choose from.
Then I’ll cook up some pork chops or pork ribs or pork roast
or pork butt or pork sausage or pork shoulder or Jimmy Dean
pork spaghetti.
Or are you scared?
The Jimmy Dean pork spaghetti is extra good.
It gets cheddar and sour cream stirred in at the end.
Jesus wept.
Get some rest, John.
I still have the private messages you wrote me showing you up for the coward you are. I already withdrew my offer of a duel.
Target shooting? What chicken sh!t.
Scared? I live in a zone where terrorist attacks could occur anywhere, anytime. Friends of mine have been murdered. I’m supposed to be scared of what? You? Texas? Pork? I don’t eat it. So what.
You one of those gals who want an operation to have a johnson, and in the mean time get to use the boys’ room? That might explain your interest in my a$$.
You may be trying real hard to convince yourself that I’m pi$$ed, but the truth is I am enjoying ripping you a new vagina.